


Hey Baby, Do You Want To Touch My... Missiles?

by dorkery



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cold War, Crack, Economics, Inappropriate euphemisms, M/M, Paperwork, Politics, Ridiculous, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-30
Updated: 2011-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-26 17:12:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorkery/pseuds/dorkery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mm yeah, that's just how the GDR rolls, baby.</p><p>Now available in <a href="http://ficbook.net/readfic/4795138">Russian</a>!</p><p>Filled for the Hetalia Kink Meme. Original request: "<a href="http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/21125.html?thread=84230021#t84230021"><b>Prussia/Germany - Seduction:</b></a> Cold War. While at a meeting, East Germany begins seducing West Germany in the hall, telling him to come over to the 'fun side' of the Iron Curtain. West Germany is completely into his former brother's dirty talk until his allies come looking for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hey Baby, Do You Want To Touch My... Missiles?

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, I don't even know. There's history here. Vaguely. I won't even bother with sources, nothing makes sense anymore.

In the wake of the end of the war, there had been a lot of work to get done. There was the issue of aiding displaced Germans throughout Europe, alongside the myriad of problems surrounding food, medicine, rationed consumables and restructuring the economy. The Reichsmark was as good as toilet paper, to be candid. To be further candid, people often used it for that very purpose. On top of all of that, if it wasn’t bad enough already, West Germany had to contend with three separate occupying forces. _Three_. The incredible push and pull each of them imposed on him as a means to publically illustrate the scope of their influence was enough to cause him a migraine on the best of days. One would think that the end of a _World War_ was enough to deter the onslaught of another, yet the world had decided that that had just been what it needed. He could scarcely imagine what facetious excuse the rest of the world had had to call what was clearly not a war, a war. In particular, the Cold War. It was ridiculous. It was stupid. The fact he had to be involved was even stupider.

He had written a very vehement (but polite) letter to his brother, channeling the worst of his frustrations into tiny, constrained script that ran several pages long. The response had been brief and altogether too amused to soothe his ruffled feathers completely, but the fact that it had come at all was a relief in and of itself. Among the things he had been worried about included censorship on account of the official political positions their governments had taken, and a potential fracture in their relationship with the end of their second joint war. He was elated that no such things had occurred.

His brother had never been prone to sentimentality and so the significance of the issued _chin up, don’t let yourself down on account of those dickheads_ that had been penned for West Germany to marvel at and refer to again and again was not lost on him. He tucked the letter especially tenderly in a little tin with the rest of his correspondence and took it out to read whenever he felt the urge to commit capital crime overwhelm him. The frequency of their exchange increased, naturally, particularly following the Basic Treaty of ’72. He smiled faintly as he recalled the clumsy way East Germany had tried to send him comfort without seeming too overt over the years. _Excuse me, why the hell are you worried about me? I’ve been fine. Peachy, even. Don’t you forget that you were still learning to wipe your ass when I murdered the shit out of Napoleon, pun not intended but hilariously appropriate, when he was busy taking a dump (pun intended) on the entire continent. Worry about your own damned self, you brat._ He missed him now that they were no longer side-by-side but his letters were always a whirlwind to read. It wasn’t enough, but for now it was a good substitute as any for his brother.

As the days dragged on into years and the Cold War constantly reasserted itself on the horizon in the guise of American-European Friendship, West Germany had taken to carrying that letter in his breast pocket.

How he wished he could take it out to read that very instant.

“Hey,” he heard the whisper as someone sidled up on his left and took a seat, “You’re looking like shit.”

West Germany pinched the bridge of his nose, gently shaking his head as he vaguely gestured towards the commotion with his other hand.

“Yeah, well, we both know this Friendship bullshit is just an excuse for them to get together and crap all over each other.”

“What is it with you and shitting, East?” West Germany smiled faintly, brow still slightly crinkled with tension as he turned to his brother. “Some new philia we have yet to discuss? Or have you been preoccupied with some sort of digestive problem? Is it the bananas? It’s the bananas, isn’t it?”

“Oh, ha-ha, you’re real cute,” East Germany rolled his eyes and casually slung an arm along the back of his brother’s chair, crossing his legs and observing the catastrophe.

They sat quietly in their corner of the conference room as the rest of the East Bloc tried (with some degree of fear) to restrain Russia from shoving paperwork down America’s throat. Somewhere along the way, the attempt at drafting some sort of economic treaty had broken down through several cantankerous rounds of passive-aggressive personal insults and degenerated into an all-out brawl. The other nations who were not actively participating or taking bets were sitting tensely in their seats, glancing nervously at the exit.

“Someone should stop them,” West Germany finally said with a heavy sigh.

“What? Fuck them, let them sort out their own problems.”

“If America or France or England come away from the meeting angry, who do you think they end up releasing all their stress on?”

“’Shit rolls downhill,’ chrissakes West, I practically invented the modern military, I know how it works. I’m saying that it don’t matter whether or not someone stops them or they take the fight to its natural conclusion, they’re going to be pissed _anyway_. May as well take the path of least effort on both our parts, am I right?”

West Germany frowned. “The natural conclusion you’re referring to is nuclear fallout.”

“Did I say that?”

“You certainly implied—”

“Nope, pretty sure I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t say it _aloud_ , of course—”

“Listen, handsome,” East Germany drawled in his ear, “Stop worrying about them and whomever the hell else you always mother over and worry about yourself for once.”

West Germany turned his head sideways to meet his brother’s eyes, still frowning lightly.

“I’m quite certain nuclear fallout will effect me.”

“Be that as it may, it’s not like you actually have a say in any of this,” he shrugged easily in response. “Seriously, don’t get your panties in a bunch. I mean, those jackasses may be the dumbest shits on the planet but trust me when I say that they’re going to tiptoe nuclear warfare considering… well, Japan.”

West Germany grimaced lightly. “I wish I could be as optimistic as you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” East Germany met his gaze with a challenging glint in his eyes and a smile with too many teeth. “Shouldn’t I be?”

“Well…” West Germany hesitated briefly, considering his words but deciding on a straightforward approach. “Well, there are rumours.”

“Let me guess. People are starving in the streets and my cars are pieces of crap.”

“In so many words.”

“Look at me, West,” East Germany grinned slowly, leaning in a bit too close as his dropped his voice to a private undertone. “Do I look malnourished and dissatisfied with the state of my automobile industry?”

West Germany gave his brother a slow once over and conceded a reluctant, “No.”

“Goes to show what you know, don’t it? And what ‘they’ don’t.”

A little unsettled, West Germany merely inclined his head in agreement. They hung back to watch the fight for a little longer before West Germany felt a hand on his right shoulder, squeezing and then moving down to his bicep. He looked at it blankly.

“Going soft, West? Let me guess, they’ve been piling you with paperwork.”

“I’m told I’m very good at it,” he turned to face his brother.

“Good old Prussian efficiency,” East Germany commented, amused.

“Learnt from the best,” West Germany said in a far too practiced manner with what may have been a smile.

East Germany grinned wildly, giving his bicep a final squeeze before curling his arm around West Germany’s neck and pulling him in so they were temple-to-temple.

“Well, not that I’m complaining. You’re kind of nice. You know. Soft-like. Kind of reminds me of when you were all wide-eyed and eager. Not that you’ve changed too much. Still eager to please, or aren’t you?”

West Germany realised he was flushing from the low whisper in his ear and wanted to move away. He didn’t. It had been a very long time since they last shared this sort of proximity and he decided to put up with it less he miss it later on. It felt nice to be in East Germany’s confidence.

“Figured. I mean, they practically abused you, didn’t they? The things you had to go through for… _currency reforms_.”

West Germany _blushed_.

“That must have been a shit ton of paperwork, huh?” East Germany licked his lips then, lowering his voice further. “I can imagine. All those signatures and bureaucracy and paper pushing. Do you know how many papers I had to sign for my Mark?”

He shook his head.

“ _One_.”

West Germany’s eyes widened as he snapped to stare into East Germany’s eyes, disbelieving.

“One signature?” He all but whispered.

East Germany nodded, gesturing vaguely with his free hand, “And the entire country had a new currency.”

“That’s…”

“That’s life in the GDR, baby,” he grinned wickedly. “And I haven’t even told you about our Bach museum yet.”

 

* * *

 

The moment he stepped into the UN building, the first point of order was to look around for East Germany. He cast his eyes along the meeting room, frustrated to see that his brother was nowhere in the vicinity. Both of them were usually early and he wanted to take the opportunity to spend as much time with him as possible before they went their separate ways on either side of the Wall. He wasn’t among the throng of the East Bloc, neither was he perched with his on-again, off-again friends from the West. It shouldn’t be a surprise, he thought dismally, that East Germany was not around. Before the Basic Treaty, a strict no public confrontation/acknowledgement order had been imposed on them both. The letters had been a concession to keep their respective governments civil. Even after resumption of normalised relations, West Germany heard rumours that the Soviets weren’t happy with how well both Germanys were getting along. East Germany’s presence often wasn’t required at these meetings, not when Russia was there as the representative of the Union. Another no show? Too many of those, these days. He thought that being friendly with each other meant they could be together. _Oh my god, you giant wuss_ , East Germany had written, _I know you can’t stand to be deprived of my manly presence and godly figure, but you’re your own damned Country now. I can’t hold your hand all the damned time, what do you think I was raising you to be? A sausage presser?_ And all right, so he had a point, but still. It was the principle of the thing.

The meeting was called to order and he took his seat but, as per usual, things eventually got out of hand. He stared disinterestedly at the proceedings and the off-table gambling that was happening on the other side of the conference hall. Part of him, the part he generally heeded, wanted to put things back into order even though a UN conference really was not on par with a linen closet or underground plumbing that could be meticulously rearranged into place. The other part of him that sounded suspiciously like East Germany was thoroughly disinclined. In the back of his head, he heard his brother’s voice telling him to let things run their natural course because whatever he did honestly truly had no bearing, either way. A little apocalyptic, to be sure, but he realised grimly that at the very least East Germany had a pragmatic approach to the world. Efficiently Prussian, indeed.

Thus, this brings us to the second point of order: Ladies and Gentlemen, West Germany was _bored_.

He hated admitting to it. Hated it. He was well organised and finely groomed for bureaucracy to the point that he was absolutely certain that bureaucracy originated in Germany and not Mesopotamia or Ancient Rome or Ancient Egypt or Ancient China. Well, all right, Ancient China was _pretty damn_ bureaucratic, but surely Germany had perfected it. Paperwork, while tedious and mindless and soul-crushing, was second nature to him now. Things had an _order_ to them that he had _mastered_ and he couldn’t, for the life of him, understand how impossible it was for the other Nations to stick to points A through F on the agenda. Nothing was getting done and it _irked_ him. He couldn’t do anything about it, either. He was a rising economy to be sure, but not yet officially a powerful one. He had no weight in the meeting. He could not call it to order.

In other words, West Germany had nothing better to do. Without much thought to formality or appropriateness, he excused himself. Not that anyone paid him any attention. As he heaved a long and heavy sigh outside the conference room, he decided that East Germany had a bad influence on him whether or not he was actually around. Perhaps the Allies-sans-Russia had been the ones to tell him not to attend.

“Oh hey! What’s up, bro?”

West Germany whipped his head up, eyes widening as East Germany trotted towards him with his hands in his pockets and lips puckered in a whistle.

“You weren’t in attendance,” he complained almost immediately in response.

“’Course I wasn’t,” East Germany snorted, “I told you, this Friendship bullshit is just them trying to—”

“—crap all over each other, yes, I remember. But you came _here_ anyway.”

“Well yeah, never seen the UN building before, decided to take a look around. It’s all cute and shiny and new.”

West Germany sighed again, shaking his head. “The least you could do is say hello.”

“Why should I when _you_ could be saying hello to _me?_ ”

West Germany paused, and then frowned slightly.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, you know exactly what I mean.”

West Germany was about to protest when East Germany placed a hand on the wall and leaned into his personal space. Whatever response he may have had immediately took flight.

“West, do you want to hear about my… Bach museum?”

West Germany’s eyes widened again. He glanced around quickly before dropping his voice in a conspiratorial hush.

“I heard that you converted his house in Eisenach into a museum. _The_ museum.”

“Oh yeah,” he smiled. “And I personally helped collate all the museum pieces, including, among other things, 300 musical instruments that Johann used throughout his life.”

“ _Three—_ ” West Germany paused to catch his breath.

“Mm, and I haven’t even talked about my… _Bach archive_.”

West Germany flushed deeply.

“In Leipzig,” East Germany leaned in closer, “Full of letters and music sheet… personally penned by the man himself.”

“Personally…”

“S’what I said,” he grinned. “Bet ‘they’ told you there’s no culture in the East.”

West Germany only nodded in affirmation. East Germany stifled a laugh as he pressed his mouth by West Germany’s ear and let his free hand ghost down along his side, resting on the man’s waist.

“Don’t you want to _run_ your hands along those… manuscripts? Don’t you want to _stroke_ the… chronologically ordered coloured tabs in the filing cabinet of the archive’s letters section?”

“East,” West Germany said breathlessly, “We’re in _public_.”

“So we are.”

“I,” he bit his lip as East Germany began to press an airy kiss to the side of his jaw, “I… I do like… archives.”

“I bet you do,” East Germany half-growled. “I bet you’d like my… _gender equality work clause_ , too.”

 

* * *

 

There were several things West Germany was not capable of. It seemed highly unlikely considering his extremely efficient handling of life, but there were a number of things that still eluded his very firm and unyieldingly strong grasp. He could name the items off the top of his head: understanding _feelings_ , that was a sore one; he didn’t have any so he didn’t understand why other people did (he was, after all, firmly convinced that he was surrounded by alien creatures that protected themselves from extermination under the guise of _cultural differences_ , surely that explained the inability of the Mediterranean countries to attend any meetings _on time_ ). Speaking of the Mediterranean, baklava was something else he was incapable of. He was also incapable of solving a Chinese finger trap without completely destroying the thing by pulling it apart with too much force.

However, the number one thing that West Germany was not capable of, and was biting him in the ass, so to speak, was the fact that he could not catch a break.

He blamed… Well, no one, really, because he couldn’t really find anyone logical to blame things on. Perhaps East Germany. East Germany was often to blame for most things.

There he was, being… informed of a number of things pertaining to his interests that East Germany had industriously worked on (and he had been about to answer, _Oh, I would like that very much, East, do tell me more about your equality clause, I know I’m not supposed to like socialism but I can’t help it when you put things like that_ ) when the conference doors had banged open, startling them apart, and the NATO members had all but dragged him off. Something worse than usual had happened and they were adamant to commit to embargos or blockades or whatever it was they wanted to do. He thought he caught the words _second Cold War_ but he wasn’t too sure. By the time West Germany had managed to get his wits about him, East Germany had long disappeared from view.

And he felt… disappointed.

No, that wasn’t exactly right. Dis… Dis… satisfied. Dis… Frustrated. He felt frustrated.

Well, he _had_ wanted to hear more about East Germany’s gender equality work clause…

Unfortunately, whatever had gone on in that meeting had been rather serious. The number of nuclear missiles America was deploying on his soil was escalating and, well, nuclear fallout was really not something he hoped to experience at all. He knew he couldn’t mention it. NATO had been very firm on his gag order. Coupled with the sudden travel restrictions, West Germany had been _this close_ to ripping his hair out. France, at least, had been kind enough to supply him with some adequate wine to dull out the irritation.

One morning, in the midst of a rather impressive hangover, East Germany had telegrammed him.

He did not remember writing his brother a letter.

 _Beefcake, it’s cute that you think of me when you’re upset but if you’re going to call me at 4 in the morning_ (“Oh,” he said.) _you should give me something to go on other than ‘I like your capital-use charge’ and ‘I hate nuclear fallout but I can’t tell you that’. One, fuck yes government intervention. Two, I already know you don’t want nuclear war, dumb shit, it’s all you talk about whenever we have meetings. Tip: Unplug your house phone when you decide to get shit-faced. It’s way too soon to sing Stille Nacht, impressive though you are at mangling the words. Leave the music to Pianoface. You stick to not getting yourself killed. You also owe me a new phone. I smashed mine. GDR, out._

Oh.

Well.

It was good to know they could still correspond, though phone calls were out for the time being. Later in the evening, West Germany pounded out a response ( _I apologise for the drunken phone call, I was very unhappy_ ), doing what he did best whilst carefully omitting the confidential information, even though the confidential information really was what was riling him up in the first place ( _I wish I could say more but I’ve heard rumblings of what may be a second Cold War. I tell you, one was quite enough. Did it even end?_ ). He signed his name at the end with a slight flourish, hesitating at the bottom of the page. Without thinking, he added a quick post-script ( _I’d really like to visit._ ). He blinked at it. It wasn’t necessarily untrue. He did miss his brother and in light of all their conversations, well… He decided not to put too much thought into it and sent the mail off the very next morning.

 

* * *

 

Yet another meeting. Meetings would be the death of him, not nuclear warfare. He could see the presses now, ‘The Federal Republic of Germany dead: Head wound from projectile in the form of a UN council room chair’. He wondered why NATO and the Soviets even bothered with meetings if all they wanted to do was kill each other. On paper, certainly, meeting to negotiate some sort of peace was a good idea. The reality, however…

West Germany was contemplating another method of conference-assisted death (‘France compliments Marxism, NATO self-implodes and causes cave-in’) when someone suddenly clamped a hand around his mouth and forcibly dragged him out of the meeting room. He was too shocked to struggle, the wind knocked out of him when he felt his back slamming into the wall in the corridor outside.

East Germany. Who else could it be, honestly?

“That was really uncalled for.”

“Hello,” East Germany replied, amused. “Why do you even bother sitting in on the meetings anymore?”

“Wish I could tell you.”

“Gag order?” he raised a single brow. West Germany nodded. “That sucks.”

“And a travel ban, too.”

“Oh, _that_ sucks. Considering a certain someone is basically pining for you-know-where…”

West Germany rolled his eyes. “I’m not pining. I just said I’d like to visit. I mean, you _were_ going on and on about Bach’s museum and Bach’s archive and…”

He paused, suddenly feeling overwarm. East Germany grinned encouragingly.

“What else was I going on about?”

“… gender… gender equality work clause. And, well, I _do_ want to hear more about it. Please tell me,” he said in an excited rush, finding himself short of breath.

East Germany lowered his voice, licking his lips, “Actually, d’you know what I want to talk about?”

He tugged West Germany’s shirt out of his trousers and slid a hand underneath it, thumb stroking lazily across the ridges of his scars. West Germany felt himself swallow, felt his stomach quiver under East Germany’s touch as his brother leaned in closer, almost nose-to-nose, lips so close he could feel his breath ghosting over his skin. He didn’t know where to look, eyes darting nervously between East Germany’s eyes and lips. He could only shake his head in response. East Germany’s grin was slow and wicked.

“How big your… _missiles_ are.”

West Germany gasped.

“You’re not supposed to know that!” he blurted out, eyes wide, panting harshly in a mixture of surprise and excitement.

East Germany rolled his eyes, “Please, it’s a Cold War. Nuclear arms race. Blah, blah, blah. Don’t misdirect me.”

West Germany bit his lip. “I… I don’t know…”

East Germany was all smiles and indolence once again, pressing their bodies together and gently rocking as he pressed his mouth to West Germany’s ear, voice low and soft and breathy. “Come _on_ , West, I’ll be good. I’ll treat you real good. I’ll put my hands on your missiles and give them a good, long buff. Nice and slow. Over and over again. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Or do you want me to grab it rough and hard? Yeah, you like it rough, don’t you? Or maybe you’d like to…”

“To…” West Germany swallowed, “To… what?”

East Germany tongued the shell of his ear, rubbing himself meaningfully against West Germany. He shivered, both hands somehow already clinging desperately to the front of East Germany’s suit. He was an utter wreck. There were high spots of colour on his cheek and his breath was ragged and his shirt was going to _wrinkle_ and…

“…To touch _my_ missiles.”

West Germany all but moaned.

“Yes, yes, I want to, god, I, I really like your socialism, East, I—”

A door slammed open.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, YOU DAMNED COMMIE BASTARD?”

“OH MY GOD, GET YOUR TONGUE OUT OF HIS—”

“WEST GERMANY, YOU OUGHT TO BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF—”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. What’s wrong if he likes socialism? He will find the Union very—”

 

* * *

 

West Germany could not catch a break. Ever.


End file.
